


Threads

by eatamilkbone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1920's Inspired Culture, America, Anal Sex, Banter, Blow Jobs, Coming Out, EWE, Empaths, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Time, Heartbreak, Hedonism, High Class Society, Jazz - Freeform, Kissing, Loner Draco, Love, M/M, Metalhead Draco, Misunderstandings, Muggle Junk Food Obsessed Draco, Muggle films, Oblivious Draco, Oblivious Harry, Pining, Post-Azkaban Draco, Professional Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Quidditch World Cup, Seeker Harry - Freeform, Semi-Closeted Harry, Slightly Emo/Punk Draco, Slow Burn, Switching, The Manor, The Weasley's - Freeform, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Whiskey - Freeform, Wizard Films, Wizarding Television, Word Travelling Draco, bed sharing, maine, switching POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-05-29 16:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatamilkbone/pseuds/eatamilkbone
Summary: After a chance meeting at a hotel in New Orleans, Harry is compelled to apologise to Draco for being rude. When Draco comes to accept the apology at Harry’s house in Maine, wearing the tightest black jeans Harry has ever seen a man wear before, Harry finds himself eager to pursue Draco. And Draco pursues him right back.Here unfolds a story of pining, bed sharing, high society, and a few misunderstandings, all threaded together with earth shattering love.





	1. Stay In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeaInspired](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaInspired/gifts).



> Thank you to my beautiful beta, [BeaInspired](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaInspired/pseuds/BeaInspired). I couldn't have re-written this without you.

_Stay in, stay out,_  
_Stay in, stay out,_  
_Tell me what to do,_  
_If I don’t hear from you_  
Stay In by JAWS

 **Ministry of Magic, London**  
**June, 1998**  
**2:30 PM**

The last time Harry Potter laid eyes on Draco Malfoy was during Draco’s trial for his (coerced!) crimes during the War.

Thin, anxious, and wearing a worried expression on his face, Draco shuffled into the imposing room where the Wizengamot lay in wait to judge him.

He was pathetic and pitiful beneath robes that might have fit him a year ago, but now hung off a skeletal frame that confirmed Draco was suffering the effects of a life gone to shit.

Harry sat in a prominent position at the head of the room, twitching with anticipation. The sight of Draco caused two conflicting reactions in Harry; pity and hope.

He pitied Draco for suffering the torment of a Dark Wizard who forced him into committing nefarious and illegal activities. He pitied Draco even further knowing that the leverage Voldemort had on Draco had been the threat of torture and death of Draco's entire family. And he felt gut wrenching pity for Draco because Draco had to stand there, waiting to be judged for all of his offences despite Harry's conviction that most of them, if not all of them, was not Draco's fault.

However, Harry hoped that Draco would be spared from Azkaban, allowed to return to society and have a fresh start at life. He hoped that his, Ron’s, and Hermione’s testimonies _for_ Draco would give enough sway to help Draco avoid a lengthy stay in Azkaban. He hoped that his testimony conveyed to Draco how grateful he was for Draco sparing his life, and he hoped Draco knew that the testimony signified the water of their past travelling swiftly under the bridge.

It was a huge blow to Harry to see Draco be given a sentence of two years in Azkaban and he near wept when Draco’s shoulders hunched forward and the blonde gave a cough that hid what Harry assumed was a sob. He pleaded silently that Azkaban would not ruin Draco even further, and he could withstand the prison with some resilience; that his youth would not be completely shredded, and that he may return to a normal life once released.

Draco made brief eye contact with Harry before he was led from the room by two exhausted looking Aurors. He seemed to give a little nod in acknowledgement of Harry, his own signification that the water of their past had a wonderful time journeying underneath the bridge, and then he was gone.

And that was the last time Harry had seen Draco Malfoy… for nearly eight years, that is.

.

.

.

 **Azkaban, North Sea**  
**October, 1998**  
**11:19 AM**

Draco Malfoy was in Azkaban, the last time he heard anything of substance about Harry Potter. It came from a nice guard in his late forties who was portly, clean shaven, and wore his Azkaban Guard’s cap loose on his bald head. He always had a smile for the prisoners, whether they deserved it or not, and had won Draco’s affections when he came to share with Draco tidbits from the newspaper.

“Ah laddie,” the guard had said with delight, “lookee here!” He had shown Draco the image of Harry Potter on page three of the paper, signing a contract beside a team of Quidditch players with a team name Draco did not know.

“It says ‘ere that that Potter fellow is off to Germany if you can believe it!” The guard examined the story with narrowed eyes to see the print better in the grim light of the hallway. “‘ _Harry Potter signs his new contract as Seeker for the Bayern Königes, Germany’s leading Quidditch team. It is said that our dear Saviour turned down every offer from British teams and is keen to run away from the country he was instrumental in saving…_ ,” the guard coughed. “It’s all rubbish, ain’t it really?”

“If you want the right scoop,” Draco told him, standing close to the cell door to peer through the bars, his eyes straining to get another look at the healthy, fit Harry displayed on the page (a physical form quite opposite to Draco’s thin, half-starved and boney one), “read the Quibbler.”

“The Quibbler, aye… full of codwater too, though.”

“Yes but he’s friends with the editor’s daughter,” Draco smiled sadly. “She’s a nice girl.”

Draco heard nothing else of Harry of note the rest of the time he was in Azkaban.  
Following his release, Draco ran rapidly into a life of seclusion on the fringes of wizarding society, becoming almost hostile to it apart from exploiting it for work, and some of the more helpful wizarding affects he found useful (like Chocolate Frogs and Needling Balms). He paid little mind to world affairs, and so was blind to Harry’s stardom in the Quidditch world, which meant he completely missed Harry’s transfer from the Bayern Königes to a team in Brazil and then from Brazil to The Portland Propellers in Maine, USA.

Which also meant that his little conversation about Harry with the guard was the last substantial insight he would have into Harry’s life...for nearly eight years, that is.

.

.

.

 **Boise, Idaho**  
**February, 2006**  
**7 AM**

“Keep it up crew!” shouted a staunch woman as a group of people ran past her. She sat relaxed on a throne-like chair, possibly transfigured from some sort of bench or stool, smirking at those who passed her.

Harry did not in anyway find her amusing. She was Captain Scrunch, captain of the American Quidditch Team, and she seemed to derive sweet joy from pushing her crew to their limits as they trained for the Quidditch World Cup.

But her tenacity at drilling them was fine, Harry often thought. That’s what they were here for, right? To prove themselves as the creme de la creme of America’s Quidditch players. So every exercise drill and every gruelling hour spent in the skies only helped strengthen their abilities.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

Harry liked to run, and climb and practice yoga and all that stuff that would help him be the Best Seeker In The World (which he would be as soon as he beat Japanese Seeker, Itchi Hamasaki, the other candidate for the title). What he didn’t much care for was the way Scrunch would sit there smirking at them as if the power she wielded was born of status, not of acquired skill. It reminded him of Draco who, despite being a very smart and talented wizard, hid behind the coattails of others and let his reputation be the reaper of respect.

He was sure that if he told Hermione about these observations, she would question why after all this time he still thought about Malfoy.

But Harry didn’t think about Draco. Not at all. Except when there was white blonde hair on top of someone’s head, or there was a sneer on someone’s face, or when people like Scrunch took great pleasure in being powerful.

Scrunch, however, had earned her right to be smug. She was a well respected Beater with an impeccable track record.

 _Not like Malfoy_ , Harry thought as Scrunch had him lead a lesson on how to do inverted sit ups whilst on a floating, moving broom. _Malfoy just bought his way into everything... acceptable Seeker, or not._ But then Harry sobered his thoughts, as he took stock of the fit and healthy bodies of his teammates who struck very different physical frames than the emaciated Draco as he shuffled from the Wizengamot hearing in 1998.

“You have six months to get yourselves in tip top shape for the Cup!” Scrunch yelled at their retreating backs when practice was over at 1:30 that afternoon. “Six months!”

And with that, the Quidditch World Cup took over his thoughts for the rest of the day, and Draco was quickly forgotten. For now.

.

.

.

The pressure of the Quidditch World Cup only intensified when it was announced that for the first time in history, the Quidditch World Cup would be available for anyone to watch, anywhere in the world, with the purchase of what wizards around the globe were calling The Box.

The Box was a silver cube that when activated, produced moving pictures with sound that greatly resembled muggle television. With the increased availability of The Box (due to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes manufacturing a cheap, hardy version), Harry was both incredibly fit and exceptionally tired due to his insane training with the American team and his home team, The Portland Propellers in Maine; the pressure to win matches had never been greater.

Which is why, possibly misplaced though it was, Harry could be found scolding Ron in a letter as if the Weasley’s manufacture of their own Box was the entire reason he was been forced to train so hard, telling him that, ‘ _...yeah, thanks, great idea and all but do you know what it’s doing to the world of Quidditch?!_

The letter he received back was jinxed with cough powder; no trip across an ocean was dastardly enough to squelch the contents of the letter and Harry coughed for a day straight.

.

.

.

 **New York, New York**  
**March, 2006**  
**2PM**

It was a rainy day in New York as Harry stood for a tailor, being fitted for robes to wear to what his companion told him was ‘ _the wedding of the decade_ ’.

His companion was Thunder Dytiscus, second son of Hawthorn Dytiscus, the head of the Dytiscus dynasty who held court over much of the Southern States. Thunder embodied the best of upper class and underclass society; a lover of fine wares, food and drink, and whiskey soaked society; a society of cocktail soaked, decadent affairs attended by a kaleidoscopic mix of artists, poets and novelists, underdogs, trust-fund babies, young social elites, and those with a taste for jazz induced madness.

Whilst his father might have wanted Thunder to enter into the family trade (politics and property, of course), Thunder was naturally drawn to more exhilarating endeavours and so ended up the Keeper for the Saints of the Southern Belle, Louisiana’s only Quidditch team. He also earned the ire of his father for his rebellion, but was not denied the hefty allowance that allowed him to live so extravagantly.

“I think a plum colour would do just fine for his robes,” Thunder told the tailor as the man worked around Harry, muttering measurements to his Self-Writing Quill.

“Anything but purple,” Harry scowled. He looked at Thunder. “I will let you dress me, Thunder, but I will not let you dress me in purple. Even if it is the ‘wedding of the decade’,” Harry made air quotes with some force, “and you have so kindly asked me to accompany you to it.”

“Cornflower blue then,” Thunder grumbled.

Harry stood down from the platform he had been placed on, swapping over with Thunder who heaved himself on to it with a Keeper’s lack of grace.

Harry had once thought that the man reminded him of Ron. And whilst there were similarities in food consumption and physical build, and Ron and Thunder had fallen into a friendly adoration for each other when they met, Thunder was far more annoying and much too much of a slut to be like Ron.

“You must try your very best to stand out at the reception,” Thunder told Harry, looking down at him. “Audrey attracts a certain high calibre of wizard and you never know...” Thunder looked at Harry and waggled his eyebrows, which Harry took to mean, _you never know, you might get lucky!_

This was delectably true. Audrey Delassixe was the darling of high society, and the lead actress in almost all highly respected modern theatre, starring both on the Wizard’s Stage in New York and on Wizard’s Stages around the globe. She was an accomplished and proud socialite, actress, model, author, and soon to be wife of the business mogul Hippolyte Arceneaux, and she did indeed surround herself with the hottest, brightest and most talented of society. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind that the wedding would be a candy shop of physical beauty.

“Expect there to be a lot of press at the wedding too,” Thunder warned, “be on your best behavior until they’re kicked out of the reception. The world has gone crazy for Audrey since she announced she’s adapting a play for the Box… a film, the muggles would call it.”

Harry grumbled. “Yes... everyone is raving about the Box these days.”

“You’re just bitter because you can’t avoid everyone watching you try and beat Hamasaki at the Quidditch World Cup. And I bet your scared in case you’re defeated and Ron gets to see it live,” Thunder jibed, poking Harry’s ribs.

“It’s his mum seeing me speeding straight for the goal and looping around it to confuse the opposing team that I’m worried about,” Harry replied firmly. “But yes I am concerned about the storm that will come if Hamasaki beats me.”

“You know it will be a cake walk,” Thunder went on, in a lower but more determined voice filled with Southern drawl.

“I don’t though,” Harry replied sternly. “And I would rather not think about it too much in case it causes me to shit myself before we take to the sky.”

“You have five months to shit yourself Harry,” Thunder chuffed, smiling.

Harry glowered. “That’s even if we get to play each other. Either of our teams could be knocked out before we even meet on the pitch.”

“True. It would crush the Quidditch world.”

“I would never hear the end of it,” Harry moaned. “Every interview would bring up how gutted I must have been to miss the chance to settle the score of who exactly is the best Seeker in the world.”

Thunder laughed, his chest heaving which caused the tailor to glare at him. “Poor you,” Thunder mocked. He was asked to step down from the platform and guided to the seat next to Harry.

“Can I get you two a drink whilst you wait for these to be drawn up?” The elegant, dry but very fabulous tailor asked.

“Scotch,” Thunder chuckled.

Harry nodded. “Why not?”

“Oh,” Thunder asked the retreating back of the tailor, “can you make sure our robes are enchanted with cooling charms? New Orleans can be stifling in May!”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Dytiscus,” the tailor said with the kind of tone one uses to a demanding child. “And the impervious for the rain. I remember your requests.”

.

.

.

 **Wiltshire, England**  
**March, 2006**  
**10 AM**

Draco travelled the world fixing furniture. More elaborately, he was the premier Magical Furniture Restoration artist and the go-to person for the repair of enchanted magical furniture. He was revered for his style of restoration; he threaded together the original enchantments of each piece, unlike other restorers who mimicked the original magic. He also worked in the location of the piece he was fixing, which meant he was always away from home.

Which suited him just fine, because he fucking hated Britain.

Nevertheless, he kept his office on the grounds of Malfoy Manor in a once grand stables building, now converted for use as a workroom (a purpose for which it was never used) and a place where his assistant, Charles, would deal with his affairs.

Entry back into Britain always made him feel sick, and the proximity to Malfoy Manor would leave him spinning for a day or two each time he arrived home.

Arriving back at the Stables after his latest contract ended, he materialised in the fireplace with the normal flourish of green flames from the floo, upsetting the workflow of Charles as the man scrawled on parchment in front of him in deep in thought. But Draco paid Charles, nor Charles’ glares of indignation, any mind.

“For fucks sake Draco,” Charles admonished, “you could have warned me you were on your way home.”

“Surprise,” Draco mock celebrated with a sour smile as he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Charles turned to his desk and with quill in hand, he took up where he had left off. “If I spill ink,” he muttered, “then I have to fucking start all over again because I am not bestowed with _magical fucking powers_!”

“Letters please,” Draco drawled as he looked down his nose at Charles, holding his hand out expectantly.

Charles jabbed his quill in the direction of the letters piled on the desk. “They await your attention, right there, your Majesty,” Charles said with a fond snarl.

Draco huffed and snatched the letters off the desk and took towards a high back, beaten up armchair in Charles’ attempted common area. He languidly crossed his legs and tried his best to wind Charles up with feigned superiority; the wind up hid his sickness at the proximity to the Manor splendidly.

The first of the letters was a request from a potential client with a Chinese name Draco recognised. “No!” Draco said harshly and loudly. He locked eyes with a startled Charles.

“No?”

“Charles,” Draco sighed with admonishment, “not _this fucking contract request again_!” Draco slapped the parchment with the back of his hand.

“What contract request?” Charles asked, suspiciously innocent in facial expression and voice.

“The Creature Cabinet. You know what fucking one. I said no, I meant no, please reply ‘no’ and don’t-“

“Excuse me,” Charles cut in, “I have told them no every single week for three months. They insist. I have written to them numerous times, on your behalf, explaining exactly why you don’t want to work with this piece and they won’t accept no for an answer. So, it is there for you to consider or to _fucking deal with yourself._ ”

One would be forgiven for thinking that Charles and Draco hated each other. That was not the case at all. Both were quite fond of each other, and both felt almost close to brothers. They had played together when they were children until Charles showed no signs of magic, and his status as a squib became apparent.

In his two years in Azkaban, Draco found himself compiling the sweeter memories of his youth, of which Charles occupied many; climbing trees, tormenting the peacocks, spending hours in the lazy sun of pre-teen summers, and escaping to Draco’s tree house together were all fundamental memories in his compilation.

But as Charles’ squib status had come to light when they were nine, the Malfoy’s pureblood prejudice forced Draco and Charles to abandon their friendship. The Malfoy’s reasoned that Draco was destined for great wizardry and Charles a muggle life, or a life of servitude such as the one Filch possessed, and those ambitions were not becoming of a Malfoy associate.

Draco promised himself to seek out Charles when he was released from Azkaban. Over beer, on their first meeting, Draco found he could be himself without judgement around Charles and, more than that, there was some retention of the sweet lazy summers that flowed from their friendship.

Charles accepted Draco’s offer to be his assistant on their second outing to the pub. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” Draco admitted. “So your first task is to help me figure that out.”

After that meeting, Charles had become Draco’s only true friend. Draco was a severely singular individual without any consistent social relationships other than those he had with Charles and Narcissa, and he spent most of his free time (which he tried to have as little of as possible by overworking himself on each contract he took) in the Muggle world, consuming far too high an amount of muggle confectionary and immersing himself in muggle culture where he saw fit.

Perhaps it was a latent come down from his last haul of chocolate, that he had scoffed down so un-Malfoy-like before he departed a Bavarian castle, where he had been repairing an enchanted fridge, or perhaps it was because Draco was a bit of a twat at times; whatever the reason, his irritation at the continuous requests to repair a piece of furniture that was both taboo and dangerous ired him fiercely and he directed it at Charles.

With a rumbling voice, Draco conceded to his fate of taking the response into his own hands. “I’ll write to them. Give me a quill…” Charles held up a quill in mock innocence, happy to rile Draco further. “Yes, that’s a quill, well done. Pass it to me now. And some parchment.”

Charles rolled his eyes, so Draco magicked the quill right out of Charles’ hands and into his own. The inkpot quickly followed. “Parchment, please...” Draco drawled. He laughed royally as it was thrown at him.

“Have your damned USA visa too,” Charles laughed, throwing the document at Draco, “I hope New Orleans sweats you to death”.

They fell into laughter. It was light and it was warm.

.

.

.


	2. Bring the Gin, Got the Juice

Somebody get the tacos, somebody spark the blunt

Let's start the Narcos off at episode one

Bring the gin, got the juice

Bring the sin, got that too

**Drew Barrymore by SZA**

  
  
**New Orleans, Louisiana  
Thursday 18 May, 2006  
6 PM**

The Liquor cabinet that Draco had been hired to repair was a sod; a complete and utter fuckwit of an item. It was perhaps the most stubborn piece he had ever tried to repair. And after nearly two months of agonising over the damn thing, Draco was seriously considering casting a Confringo at it and covering the costs for the damage.

On this particular day, as he was packing up for the evening, his client came into the dining room where he was stationed and stood over him with the air of someone who found almost everything insufferable. 

Draco didn’t much like his client, the owner of The Highmore Hotel. The hotel was known for having an unnamed presence that could encourage drunken madness in its guests, and it was rumoured this was a spectral projection of the boozy architect who had designed and built it in the late 1800s. In contrast to its reputation, the current owner of the Highmore was stern, surly, and old, and Draco suspected the witch had outworn her pleasantries sometime in the 1920s.

“When will you be finished?” She asked bluntly, her foot tapping on the tiled floor.

Draco swallowed a sneer. “It’s coming along, I would say,” he lied. “I think your liquor cabinet had worn out the charm to keep vodka cold rather than polarising itself to keep things warm,” which was the truth.

“Good. Thank you Mr. Malfoy.” The woman paused for effect. “I hope you’ll be done soon.”

“Indeed, I am sure I shall.”

“We have a big wedding this weekend and many guests are staying from Thursday onwards,” she said quickly with a clipped edge. “You might want to take a long weekend and come back on Monday.”

“Sure, no problem,” Draco replied, dipping his head politely and turning to leave.

It kind of was a problem to Draco though; if he took time off, he was forced to spend more time in New Orleans working for that woman.

.  
.  
.

**New Orleans, Louisiana  
Saturday 20 May, 2006  
9 PM**

The wedding reception for Audrey and Hippolyte Arceneaux took place in the garden of Hippolyte’s family home; a genteel mansion with wrap around galleries covered in twining ropes of ivy. 

Amongst the rich, respected, famous, and politically important, Harry and Oliver Wood had been catching up, and flirting, like old friends. This was until, through a knot of rambunctious performance artists, came the gliding figure of the bride herself, Audrey Arceneuax. With her came a heavenly sense of joy. She was proud and bewitching in her dazzling white and silver gown, a garment even more beautiful than the wedding dress she had worn that afternoon as she wed the handsome Hippolyte. 

“Harry Potter and Oliver Wood, my my my, what a treat!” she called as she approached them.

“Mrs. Arceneaux, congratulations!” Harry addressed her politely.

“Congratulations,” Oliver said with a wide, handsome smile. “And it is so good to see you again!” Oliver leaned in and gave Audrey a kiss on both cheeks, which caused Audrey to beam. Her gestures were gentle and subtle. She seemed to sparkle… like champagne, almost. And indeed, like champagne, beneath the beautiful exterior she was intoxicating. Harry was immediately basking in her radiance. 

“Thank you,” she replied with a beautiful, deep Southern accent. The drawl curled over Harry like summer sunshine. He was charmed, and felt humbled and tentative in the presence of such a charming, accomplished socialite. “Oliver, did you know that Harry came to keep my old childhood playmate company?”

“I did not,” Oliver replied, his eyebrows raised as he looked at Harry.

“And a good thing he did too,” Audrey continued, “he’s a liability. Have you met Thunder Dytiscus?”

“I haven’t,” Oliver replied, “but one of the Chasers for the Valkyries used to play for the Saints of the Southern Belle with Thunder.”

“Is that who you’re playing for now? Keeper for the Vancouver Valkyries? They are lucky to have you.” She smiled with eyes that confirmed with affectionate truth that she really believed what she was saying. “Anyway, I would love for you to meet Thunder properly, where has he got to?”

Audrey made a show of looking around the garden, and her movements made the dusting of gold shimmering powder on her chocolate skin sparkle under orbs of fairy lights that floated dreamily in the air above them. 

Harry smiled cheekily. “Uh… well… I think you might find one of your bridesmaids absent from the party as well.”

Audrey laughed, and the sound sparkled around them. Her presence caused a pleasant and companionable stir in Harry, originating at his solar plexus and shifting all the way up to curl around his heart. 

He was well aware of the rumors that Audrey was an empath, and one look at Oliver’s face suggested that he too was under the effects of Audrey’s spell. Harry thought, in that moment, he could follow all selfish desires and not be held accountable for any of them. 

“I think you might find that it’s two bridesmaids,” Audrey told them, winking. “The last I saw of Tomasina and Joy, they were over there talking to Max Beach, he’s an author you know, and Ellie Glidewell, she’s a musician.” She pointed to a table where a stunning blonde man, about Harry’s age, sat talking with a young witch with curly brown hair. Audrey then turned to Oliver. “My darling, how do you know Harry here? I am guessing from those delectable accents that you both went to school together…”

“Indeed,” Oliver replied in his thick Scottish brogue. The sound of it sent warm threads of _want_ up Harry’s spine, and it had done so since the moment Oliver had crossed the decorated garden, shouting Harry’s name and pulling him into a hug reserved solely for old friends who had crossed oceans of success and tragedy with one another. “We went to school together, and I was the first Quidditch Captain he ever had, after he was forced onto the Gryffindor school team when he was just a wee eleven year old!”

Audrey turned with an intrigued smile on her face. “Is that so? That’s very young, Harry.”

Harry blushed and nodded. He was eternally grateful that Oliver hadn’t added anything about fighting in the war together. It was a subject he tried to avoid with the Americans at all costs, having learned his lesson that heroic celebrity to them was like crack to a junkie. “It’s true, for sure.”

“He was the youngest Seeker at Hogwarts for over a hundred years,” Oliver continued with some emphasis to instill awe in Audrey. “And that is why it’s no surprise he’s the best Seeker in the world,” Oliver winked at Harry, which made Harry’s growing attraction to Oliver speed up substantially.

Audrey looked between them both briefly with a thoughtful expression. She looped her arm through Harry’s, and placed the side of her head against Harry’s temple in a very familiar and intimate fashion. “Harry,” she said with a low voice, “don’t you think I managed to capture the heart of one of America’s most handsome men?”

Harry’s eyes quickly flickered to Oliver’s before they scanned the garden for Hippolyte. Harry knew there was no point in hiding his sexuality from Audrey. It was quite clear she was able to read him like a book, and was meddling with poise and cunning. “He is one of the most handsome men I have ever seen,” Harry sighed. “I’m jealous,” he added for flattery.

Audrey giggled. “And what say you, Oliver?”

“My lady,” Oliver began with a spectacle bow, “I bow to your capabilities to ensnare such a being.”

“Oh, stop it!” Audrey laughed. “If he hears you, his ego will grow and he might think he can do better than little old me.”

“There is no one more beautiful in this world than you,” Oliver crooned. 

“Ah yes, Mr. Wood, but I am not exactly your type, am I?” 

Oliver looked at Harry dead in the eye. “You would be, Audrey, if I wasn’t gay as the day is long.”

Audrey giggled with enticing playfulness. ”Oliver! Well don’t go after my husband,” she joked, “because I am not sure he would be able to say no to such a catch as you!”

Oliver grinned at Harry and blushed slightly. “It’s okay,” he said. “I have my eye elsewhere.”

“I’m sure you do, darling,” Audrey tittered. “Now! I am going to go and see if I can get the band to play Lion’s Paw for me. You two head on over to the bar and ask Phillipe to make you both a Melodic Orchid with gin,” she turned to walk away, and Harry felt slightly bereft at her departure. She looked back over her shoulder at them after she had moved five paces away. “He came all the way from Œuf de Cane in Paris, you know? He’s the head mixologist there.”

“Merlin,” Harry breathed when she had moved on. He felt slightly out of breath, as if he had just run twenty laps around the huge garden they stood in. “I think I’m in love!” he joked… only half of the statement was in humor; he was completely enamoured with her and understood with the gravity of his very being how she was so beloved by witches and wizards all over the world.

Oliver laughed at him, his eyes sparkling. “She has that effect, yes. It’s because she’s an empath. She projects her emotions on to other people, and she can read other people’s emotions too. I mean, don’t get too hung up about being under her scrutiny or influence,” Oliver gave Harry a smile, “her abilities aren’t strong enough to make you do anything you don’t want too.”

Harry nodded, relieved. “How did you first meet her?”

“Hippolyte owns the Brutes of the Bay up in San Francisco,” Oliver explained, “and she would accompany him when he came to visit sometimes. She practically ordered me to join them for dinner one night… she seems to have taken a liking to me.”

“So is Hippolyte the one who fired Captain Blackleaf?” Harry asked under his breath as they made their way through gold, silver and cream ribbons that seemed to fall impossibly from the grass into the sky, and provided an air of secrecy and mystery for the guests as well as a stunning backdrop to the opulence of the reception itself.

“Oh yes. Hippolyte is really not one to get on the bad side of, and she certainly did. That’s why Blackleaf’s departure seemed so extreme.”

“I heard,” Harry replied, sighing. “But she shouldn’t have been neglecting The Bay’s team coaching sessions and leaving it all to Hart to lead.”

“Agreed,” Oliver nodded. “It was all such a mess. I had already signed to play for the Valkyries by the time Hippolyte came in and spruced up the team. I was only there for two months after he bought it.”

“So what’s Masters like as a Captain?” Harry had met Lyra Masters several times at Quidditch events. He liked her unassuming, soft smile and her reputation for strategic training. “Is she still doing the Valkyries proud?”

“She’s honest,” Oliver confirmed. “Methodical.”

“Sounds like Scrunch,” Harry said smirking, “except she’s paranoid.”

“Always has been, according to Boxall. But she’s the right captain for the job if you ask me… I don’t know anyone else of her calibre that could lead a team to success at the Quidditch World Cup.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you going back home anytime soon?” Oliver asked Harry after they paused in their conversation briefly.

“For my birthday… well, not my _actual_ birthday, because it’s too close to the Cup and there’s no way Scrunch would lengthen my leash enough to let me travel for more than maybe half a day!” Harry smiled up at Oliver, who stood a good few inches above Harry’s 5ft 6” frame. “We are celebrating on June 31st instead.”

“Do you miss home much?” Oliver queried softly as they rounded on the bar, where a gorgeous redhead with long hair and inviting light green eyes was mixing drinks with a precision that made it an art. Oliver ordered them the suggested Melodic Orchid’s and turned his attention fixedly on Harry.

“Very,” Harry declared. “Horribly so sometimes.”

“Would you go back?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe, if the teams were right or I retired. But I’ve kind of made a life here. It’s hard… I don’t know. What about you?”

“I have only been in Canada for two years… I was at Puddlemere so long that it’s nice to have a break from the same old, same old. Canada is nice, and the Scene up there is really good.”

Oh yes, Harry knew all about the Canadian Gay Scene. Liberal, loose, proud; as it should be. And Harry could appreciate it, and admire the famous individuals who were proud and out in the Scene both in and out of North America. But Harry was not _out_ in any formal capacity. It was an open secret.

And it was a secret Oliver now knew to be true. “Are you seeing anybody, Harry?”

Harry fizzed with anticipation. He and Oliver were on a course now, sped along by the wonderful Audrey. “No… well… sort of.”

“Sounds complicated,” Oliver observed. “Anyone I know?”

Harry groaned and delayed his confession with two gulps of his drink. “Well, yes. You probably do. Mitch Cassidy.”

“Oh, you have got to be joking,” Oliver grumbled in sympathy and despair. “He can’t help but stay in the papers as a prime example of a bad apple.”

“I know, I know,” Harry said with embarrassment, “but in my defence, he’s addictive.”

Oliver laughed at that. “That is not a good adjective for a lover, Harry.”

“Well that’s all he is,” Harry defended, “a lover. We aren’t a couple. Sort of.”

Oliver shook his head in dismay. “He’s awful, Harry… I mean, beautiful and talented, yes. But honestly… couldn’t you have gone for someone who doesn’t have a reliance on intoxicants and drama?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not as if I have time for something normal,” Harry kept up his defences, “and he’s fun to be around.”

“Until he switches, and then he’s just mad.”

“This is true,” Harry conceded. “He can be a jealous prat at times… but it’s not like he can talk, he’s on again and off again with Howl Strange all the time.”

“Are you jealous?” Oliver asked before softly answering his own question. “You’re not a proper couple, aye. Maybe a little bit jealous.” He took a sip of his drink and stood in thought for a moment. “I wonder how jealous he would be if I were to sneak you out of this party and take you back to the Highmore for the rest of the night?”

Harry coughed in surprise. This was Oliver Wood; dreamboat Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and figure of many of Harry’s early fantasies. “If he found out about it, I suppose he would be, yes.”

Oliver gave Harry a wicked smile. “Here’s to hoping he never finds out.” He toasted to that, and pulled Harry into the night.

.   
.  
.

**New Orleans, Louisiana  
Saturday 20 May, 2006  
9 PM**

Draco had somewhat befriended a muggle bartender by the name of BeBe. She worked at a metal bar called The Sarcophagus, and Draco could be found there a few nights of the week soaking up her knowledge of music and taking pleasure in her crude sense of humor. 

He often found himself in metal and rock bars. He liked the technical mastery of the music, and he thrived on the lyrical poetry of anger, death and anti-religion (one could easily transpose the rejection of the dominant religion to the rejection of twisted wizarding ideals). He wasn’t a metalhead, per se. Just a bit of one. Why wouldn’t he like angry music? He was fucking angry at the world.

And metalheads were _nice_ people. Despite the music that screamed and thrashed and had questionable lyrics, they themselves were often humble and considerate. Draco never kept any of those he met as friends for more than the time he was in the city, but it was nice to connect with people some of the time.

“DOWN are playing at the House of Blues tomorrow night,” BeBe shouted to him across the bar as the noisy post-punk band started shredding the soundspace. “You comin’?”

“DOWN?” Draco queried, taking a swig of his PBR.

“One of our biggest metal exports,” she explained. “Dirty. Heavy. You’ll like them.”

Draco had liked almost all of BeBe’s suggestions for things to see or do so far (he had hated the naked kazoo players), so he shrugged as if to say he would indeed join her. It would beat a night in his hotel room watching muggle movies on his own, surrounded by bags of muggle sweets. If he did that he would fall into a sugar crash, wondering how he was going to get out of his confectionary addiction with his teeth and sanity still in place.

.  
.  
,

**New Orleans, Louisiana  
Sunday 21 May, 2006**

Harry was rather surprised to find himself on rolling about on the floor of the Highmore Hotel’s bar at three in the afternoon, inhaling shots of whiskey to aid the hair of the dog from Audrey’s wedding the night before. Harry was acting so intoxicatingly deranged that he hardly knew himself anymore.

It was a drunken chaos in Harry that he couldn’t explain. He could only stare happily but helplessly at his own choices as they were made, and that included the choice he made to stay another night in New Orleans with Thunder, so Thunder could see some band play at the Laveau Lounge.

“It’s the hotel!” Thunder screeched as he sat almost upended on the floor of the bar. “I told you it was the best place to stay!”

Under the same mania, it took little for Harry to convince Oliver to stay another night too. And right up until the moment they left for the Laveau Lounge, he and Harry had pawed at each other for several hours.

Harry’s mind seemed to record things brokenly. He caught glimpses of himself rocking amongst the crowd who were praising the band in wild displays of movement. And he also caught glimpses of himself taking Milk of Molly sublingually, which was something he never normally did; illegal intoxicants were not his thing. Most of the time. Especially not with the training regime he was currently under.

And once they returned to the Highmore from the Laveau Lounge in the early hours of the morning, the last thing he knew before he fell asleep was that he was going to feel like shit when he woke up.

.  
.  
.

**New Orleans, Louisiana  
Monday 22 May, 2006  
11 AM**

Draco was at his wits end with the liquor cabinet. On his knees, numb as they were from the hard stone floor of the dining room of the Highmore Hotel, he peered under the base. Squinting, frustrated with the threads of magic that were no longer elastic enough to knit together easily, he reached his right hand to the back of the underside of the piece and ran his fingers along it to feel any physical bumps or knicks that might explain the near-impossibility of the repair.

“Where the devil is breakfast?” Groaned a voice by the door.

Startled, as there had been no warning of anybody entering the room, Draco was caught off guard, and in his haste to turn around to see the other occupant of the room, his finger caught a loose piece of wood on the underside of the cabinet, slicing the pad deeply.

“Ow, fuck!” Draco hissed, studying his finger closely as it poured blood from an angry wound.

“Ah, I’m sorry!” The intruder pounded hard on the floor as he ran towards Draco.

Draco looked up to glower at whoever was rushing over to him.

“Oh for absolute bloody fucks sake,” Draco groaned, his tone strained.

“Malfoy?” Harry’s voice was pinched, husky and alarmed.

Draco watched Harry look down at his bleeding finger as it dripped blood onto his blue work jeans.

“Of bloody course you’re a guest at that fucking wedding,” Draco snapped, pulling Harry’s attention back around to him. He looked at his finger. “Will you spell this closed? I don’t cast too well with my other hand.”

“Uh...” Harry winced. “I’m a bit hungover, but yeah...” Harry removed his wand from the inside of his robes, rumpled from the night before, and pointed it at Draco’s finger.

Draco hissed at the pain of the stitch. “Cheers,” Draco thanked Harry softly. He smiled at Harry for a second before wiping the blood from his finger on his jeans.

Harry stayed still, staring at Draco, glancing to the blood on Draco’s hand and jeans and back to his eyes again. “What are _you_ doing here?” Harry asked. The question was entirely snobby and it caused Draco to sneer.

“Working.” Draco stood up abruptly, and Harry followed suit.

“You work here?”

“Not here, Potter...” Draco scowled. “I’m fixing this,” he pointed to the cabinet, “for the owner.”

“Fixing it?”

“Yes Potter.”

“Why?”

Draco shook his head in hesitant dismay. “Because it’s broken.”

“But why you?” Harry asked. Draco would happily admit to himself, and only himself, that he was stung by the disbelieving, distrusting and displeased tones in Harry’s voice.

“Because I’m the-“

“Harry... there you are!” A short, dusty haired young man strode into the room, interrupting their conversation and causing Harry to wince at what Draco assumed was the pitch of the man’s tone.

“Yeah, sorry, was looking for breakfast,” Harry rubbed his temples rhythmically.

“You look like death warmed up,” The other man scoffed. He walked over to Harry and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Last I saw of you last night, you were aiming drops under your tongue with that Scottish guy!”

Harry blanched and looked at his friend, scandalised. Leaning close to him, Harry seethed and whispered something that sounded to Draco as ‘shut the fuck up, Thunder’. Draco raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Thunder began to steer Harry away. “Sorry buddy,” he told Draco, “we have a portkey waiting!” He beamed at Draco as if they were sharing an inside joke. “And no breakfast for you, Harry. You should have gotten out of bed earlier.”

Draco watched them go, confused and annoyed and curious. He noted the strange exchange and the strange body language Harry exhibited when Thunder teased him, and it only served to fuel Draco’s misgivings about the man. _Idiot_ , he thought.

“Bye...” Harry managed to say over his shoulder before being pulled out of the dining room entirely.

“Bastard,” Draco muttered into empty air. “’ _Why you?_ ’... Why me, Potter?” Draco mocked. “Because I am the best fucking Magical Furniture Restoration Artist in the whole bloody world, that’s why.”

Draco rolled his eyes, and got straight back down to work, forcing himself to ignore the ugly patterns of blood on his muggle jeans.


	3. Oceans

It feels like there’s oceans

Between you and me,

Once again

**Oceans, Seafret**

  
  
**Harry’s House, Maine  
Tuesday 23 May, 2006  
4 PM**

“If I ever find out about you fucking someone else, I will never see you again!” Mitch yelled, his finger pointing at Harry. He was stood in Harry’s lounge, eyes pouring with crocodile tears, draped in an old worn jumper and smart trousers. 

Harry couldn’t help it; he laughed at him. It began as a little chuckle, but it rose to full on choking breaths of giggling where he held his ribs, trying his best not to look at Mitch’s scandalised face. 

“And what is so funny?” Mitch asked, crossing his arms and possibly stamping his foot. He had to ask several times before Harry could breathe enough reply.

“You are such an arse,” Harry explained, “and a hypocrite!” 

Dodging the accusation, Mitch exploded with a cry of pain, falling back against the sofa and melting into a pit of symbolic grief. “I heard it from Eleanor,” Mitch wailed, “... sweet, sweet, Ellie!... she told me you were _canoodling_ with that Scottish man!”

Harry shook his head to calm himself further, and kept his gaze away from Mitch who had gone to plucking loose threads from a throw. “And I suppose the newspaper article I read _this morning_ that detailed the explosive showdown you and Howl had at The Crown in Hand over in Philadelphia was false?”

“It was exaggerated,” Mitch grumbled, his chin dipping low to his chest.

Harry allowed himself a little thrill of affection towards Mitch before he asked: “But you have been sleeping with him again?” He found himself sobering at the words, but Mitch’s petulance was cute enough to redeem him. 

He couldn’t stand Howl Strange. Howl was Mitch’s childhood sweetheart and current on-again-off-again lover. Both addicts and creatives, they were well known to fuel each other’s destruction whilst pillaging the never ending wealth of their families who, through affluent neglect, somewhat supported their wildness.

In response to his question, Mitch threw a cushion at Harry. “That’s completely different!” He protested with a pout Harry found adorable. Harry for the life of him couldn’t understand how it was different at all, but Mitch was a funny man when he was being a dramatic sod, so he was forgiven for his hypocrisy.

Mitch burst into an ugly demonstration of fake anguish, complete with tears and sobs, whilst Harry tried his best to be still and not roll around laughing once again. “You’re such a child,” Harry told him fondly, turning to walk into the kitchen for a steadying dram of whiskey. Harry’s attention being taken from him could be the only explanation for Mitch’s following statement and it stopped Harry dead in his tracks. 

“I should just go to those fancy magazines you seem to love reading when you are _checking up on me_ and tell them how much you love sticking my cock down your throat.”

Amongst all the parties and the glamour, the acknowledgement of his success as a sportsman and not a child fulfilling a prophecy, it was easy for Harry to forget that he had faced death and Death Eaters, and a Dark Wizard. This _thing_ he had with Mitch was just so asinine compared to the events of his teenage years, but the threat of exposure to the wide Wizarding world brought the soldier in Harry alive.

Mitch had only seen Harry in anger once, and it had scared him sober and considerate for a week, which was a miracle of its own. This time was no exception; Harry turned to him, green eyes strikingly darkened with rage, and his scowl was as terrifying as the crackling of Harry’s magic filling the room.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry challenged. 

Mitch cowered back on the sofa just a little before he gave a genuine squeak that signalled his fright. He didn’t say anything however, and Harry took that to mean Mitch wouldn’t break his silence on Harry’s personal life.

Which was good enough for Harry, who decided the best way to settle the situation and to shut Mitch up was to take him to bed and fuck him into the mattress.

**The Burrow, Ottery-St-Catchpole  
Friday 30 June, 2006  
1:43 PM**

”Seeing Oliver Wood was pretty mad,” Harry told Hermione and Ron as they strolled through the orchard at the Burrow after a rowdy Weasley lunch to celebrate Harry’s birthday. Harry strongly avoided telling them exactly how much of Oliver Wood he had seen, but the memory was still fresh in his mind and his quill had moved swiftly on some parchment two weeks previously to invite Oliver to stay when he was back in the USA. “But I bumped into Malfoy, and _that_ was weirder.”

“Malfoy?!” Ron squawked, stopping dead in his tracks. “He was at the wedding?”

“No,” Harry replied, smirking. “He was working in the hotel.”

“Working in the hotel?” Hermione whistled thoughtfully. “Wow... I never knew he would be able to work in a service position.”

“Yeah, the prideful prick,” Ron added.

“No, no...” Harry replied quickly. “He was repairing a cabinet in the hotel... I gave him a fright by accident.”

“Repairing a cabinet?” Hermione mused, tutting. “I suppose he has a successful track record in repairing broken furniture,” she said with a dark humour, her eyes narrowing.

”I think I was a bit rude,” Harry admitted, blushing. He kicked a stone out of his path as he drew the memory of his rudeness back into focus. “I was extremely hungover.”

Hermione pouted, her face turned towards Harry and her eyebrows raised. “Again.”

Harry glared at her for her disapproving tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked in a high, defensive pitch.

“Things get into the papers, mate,” Ron explained, holding back a laugh. “All trash, I mean... who wants to read about whatever dress some witch was wearing at some party? Or wizards,” Ron laughed fully, “I seen a tranny in one of the pictures in that gossip column!”

“Ron, that’s a crude term,” Hermione scolded. “They’re transvestites at best.”

“Or drag queens,” Harry said pointedly, secretely proud of his queer community.

“Still a bit odd, don’t you think?” Ron stuttered.

“And this is coming from someone who sells _Lady-Beard Lollies_ at his shop!” Hermione rebuked, shaking her head.

“That’s just for laughs,” Ron defended himself sheepishly. “And it is an _emporium_ , Hermione. And we are about to go global.”

“You’re really prejudiced sometimes, Ronald. And I don’t see any correlation between you selling lollipops, your prejudice, and Wheezes going global,” Hermione scolded with a frown. Harry thought it amazing how hard she could be with Ron sometimes. She shrugged it off, her curly brown hair shaking along with her as she huffed out her annoyance. “Anyway, what did Malfoy say?”

Harry looked at Hermione with a pinched face, “Not much really... He had cut his finger pretty badly and he asked me to help him fix it.”

“Really!?” Hermione asked. “How funny... ten years ago he’d of bled to death rather than asking you to help him.”

“You’re forgetting the Room of Requirement,” Harry noted, his finger held out to illustrate the importance of his observation. He ignored the images of Draco laying on the floor of the girl’s bathroom bleeding out from Harry’s use of Sectumsempra, however. He did not want to ruin his mood for the rest of the day as he inevitably would recalling such a memory.

“That’s different,” she replied curtly.

“But I see your point,” Harry mumbled. Raising his voice to be heard clearly, he stated, “Come to think of it, that seems very trusting of him. Nonetheless, he wasn’t that pleased to see me.”

“It seems a bit strange that we haven’t heard anything about him since he left Azkaban,” Hermione noted thoughtfully as they rounded a huge apple tree.

That notion stopped Harry short. A series of ill-formed questions formed around his Adam’s apple uncomfortably, and in his stomach formed a gripping curiosity so suddenly he felt seized by the memories of Draco slinking about empty halls, nefariously working to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts.

There was a pull behind it. As if Harry had just returned to something primal and raw through memory alone. He hadn’t felt such thrill since Sixth Year, and that included all the times he jumped off his broom mid-game.

“That is a bit strange,” Harry agreed. “You’d of thought something would have got back to us now.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, animated and hungry for the hunt, “what’s he hiding?”

This question only served to fuel Harry’s rising excitement. He scrambled for an excuse to investigate the matter further. “Maybe I should go apologise to him,” he reasoned.

Hermione assessed Harry curiously and it made Harry feel as if she could see something about hims that he couldn't. He hated when she did that, so he stilled the brightness in his expression as much as possible. “He’s probably not hiding anything,” Hermione reasoned.

Harry felt oddly dampened by Hermione’s words. He tried to raise the previous rumble of the start of the hunt back into motion, but it came up short.

“Let bygones be bygones,” Hermione said, her tone sharpened with finality.

“Still,” Harry replied, “maybe I should be a man about it. The bigger man. Accept my faults and the like.” He wasn’t sure if saying sorry to Malfoy was futile or not, but he reasoned that there must be some noble conviction in apologising for being a twat, which in itself was reason enough to pursue the venture.

“If you think it’s wise,” she told him half heartedly. “Just make sure it’s for the right reasons. You don't have the best history with Malfoy, and you’ve been known to become consumed with trying to suss him out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry complained. “I feel like you might be trying to warn me about something and I wish you’d just come out and say it.”

Hermione turned around to walk towards the Burrow, ignoring him. “Come on... I think it’s time you opened your presents.”

.

.

.

**The Burrow, Ottery-St-Catchpole  
Friday 30 June, 2006  
2:31 PM**

As Harry came to the final gift from the Weasley’s, he felt a shift in the room as if the energy had turned mischievous. “That’s just a little something from me,” Ron explained, nodding towards the gift in Harry’s hands. 

By the way Ron, George and Ginny were all squirming with delight, Harry knew he was in dangerous waters.

Harry gingerly opened the red wrapping paper to reveal a labelled box with macabre illustrations that held a weighty bottle of Skele Grow, and the memories of the potion made Harry’s stomach turn. “Uh...” Harry sounded in confusion, looking up at a grinning Ron.

“Thought you might need it mate,” Ron told him with a wink.

“Thanks?” Harry replied.

“What a silly present,” Molly chided her son with a huff.

“Oh trust me Mum,” Ginny said from beside Molly. “Harry could do with an emergency bottle with all the moves he pulls.”

Molly narrowed her eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Ginerva?”

“We charm all the pictures of you flying in the papers so mum doesn’t see your stunts,” Ron told Harry dramatically.

“And we’re getting bloody bored of it now, so we thought we would help you come clean about it to Mum,” Ginny explained through a fit of giggles. Harry looked around the room... even Arthur was nodding in agreement to the cause.

“Can anybody explain to me what’s going on?” Molly asked, her temper rising. “Harry,” she scolded, “you better be behaving yourself up there.” She pointed upwards, her face the picture of matriarchal concern. She wagged a stern finger at him for effect.

Ginny, humoured and keen on keeping herself in that state, laughed and began riling Molly up further. “Hardly Mum... Harry likes to test death when he’s playing.”

George piped in. “Forget the Wronski Feint... Harry has been known to fling himself upside down on his broom at seventy miles an hour hanging on by one leg!”

The room was silent for a beat.

“You do _what_?!” Molly shouted.

“No broken bones yet,” Harry defended himself, holding his hands up and squirming.

“That’s not the point,” Molly argued. “The point is you are deliberately putting yourself in danger.”

“It’s a habit, I guess,” Harry replied, shrugging.

Molly went silent, and her expression turned thoughtful. After several seconds, she smiled softly at Harry and stood up with her arms out. “Sorry Harry,” she said softly, beckoning Harry in, “come here for a hug.”

All eyes on him, Harry stood. Molly pulled him into her arms and said loudly enough for everyone to hear: “I love you Harry, just be safe.”

And then she held him at arms length and swatted his ear. “You better know what you’re doing, you fool.”

The room erupted with laughter, and Harry even gave a few chuckles whilst nursing his stinging ear.

“She’d of seen it eventually,” Ron justified, pointing to the Weasley’s Box. “We had to do it. We _had_ too!”

“Exactly,” George piped in, “with the World Cup and all…”

Harry stuck his middle finger up at Ron behind Molly’s back. But he laughed along with the family, happy despite his stinging ear.

.

.

.

**The Burrow, Ottery-St-Catchpole  
Friday 30 June, 2006  
11:00 PM**

Later that night, when all had calmed down and Harry retired to Ron’s old room to sleep, he resolved to try and make amends for the rudeness towards Draco in New Orleans.

He had been actively trying to rustle up at least some of the obsessive drive he had felt during his earlier conversation with Ron and Hermione, and laying in the dark he had found it. He remembered Draco’s soft reply of ‘cheers’ and the slight smile he gave Harry when Harry had fixed his cut.

Harry’s stomach twisted with guilt for his suspicious responses to Draco, but he was grateful for it; now, his need to offer an apology gave him a reason to try and pull Draco back into his focus again after a long 10 years of absence.

And although there was absolutely no reason to focus on him - there was no indication Draco was active in a criminal party or that they could resume their rivalry - Harry still felt a _need_ for him.

The last thing he thought about before he went to sleep that night was Draco, Draco’s worn jeans, and how he hadn’t known he had missed him until now.

.

.

.

**Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire  
Monday 2 July, 2006  
4 PM**

Harry hazarded a guess that the best place to find Draco was at Malfoy Manor, and so before he left England, he apparated to the Manor and stood outside the gates, flustered with indecision.

He wondered if he should try opening the gates or call out. Should he even be here apologising to Malfoy? Was there really a justified reason to approach his former enemy in such a way? 

The thought of Draco’s muggle jeans, stained on the knees from kneeling on the floor and on the thighs from the blood from his cut finger, had plagued Harry ever since he had seen him at the Highmore. 

And there were many other questions Harry had about Draco’s life that seemed to drive him forward in his quest to apologise; what exactly _did_ Draco do? Was he happy? Had he healed after the war? Did he still see his Slytherin friends?

Harry had tossed and turned for several nights, wondering what his life might have been like if Draco and he had stayed in touch; would they have slung insults at each other like old times, or would they have continued the theme of saving each other’s lives?

Most potently, Harry thought about Draco’s immediate response to seeing him at the Highmore:

_“Of bloody course you’re a guest at that fucking wedding...”_

And he had wondered what on earth Draco must think of him in general; Harry came to the conclusion based on Draco’s statement that Draco must think him to still be a right prat.

Harry was faintly aware that he was obsessing over Draco again, and he would admit to himself and himself only that it felt good, homely and anchoring.

Still outside the Malfoy Manor Estate gates, Harry shuffled from foot to foot and then approached the gate with a hand out, expecting the gate to be locked. However, the gate swung open freely in a worrying display of lax security.

The driveway was long and noticeably unused. Tree-lined, it curved left and right throughout the five minute walk to the manor, and the walk did nothing to quell a sudden turmoil that had settled on Harry.

As he walked, the feeling doubled, and then quadrupled in intensity, and upon sighting the Manor for the first time in ten years, he was almost flattened by feelings of terror and disgust. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining hearing his bones threaten in creaking screams to break, but his ears seemed to be battered with the sound. All the while his ears were assaulted with bone crunching, his mind tormented him with horrific memories. Some were his, some were foreign and they made him feel guilty and somewhat frenzied.

“What the fuck?!” He shouted out into static crackling air as the feelings of despair and agony took hold of him. Harry began collapsing under the weight of the dark aura swirling about the grounds as he saw blackened windows bulge with the pressure of the dark magic inside the building.

“You there!” Shouted a voice far off to his right. The sound struggled through the climaxing orchestra of hate attacking his ears. At the same time, Harry felt a small hand begin tugging him towards the voice and when he looked down he saw a house elf.

“Mister come, please,” said the elf, pulling him hard, it’s ears bouncing with each tug.

Harry stumbled as he allowed himself to be guided away. As he moved further and further from the Manor, he felt less and less sickened and panicked. As the pain, pressure and noise subsided, Harry became highly aware that the elf’s help was instrumental in his escape, and he wouldn’t have been able to move without it. He shuddered at how powerless that made him feel.

After crossing a path that separated an overgrown rose garden with a healthier looking lawn that led down a rolling slope towards a stables building, Harry found that he could breathe again. He took in delightful gasps of breath and fought the rise of his breakfast up his throat.

As he battled rising vomit, he looked at the quivering house elf and nodded gratefully before the elf spirited away to somewhere Harry hoped was not the Manor.

“You there!” The voice called again, standing at the top of the slope a short way from Harry.

Harry turned to the speaker who was panting and dishevelled, bowed over, catching his breath and clutching at his chest, as if he had run at full speed without preparation.

“Sorry,” Harry choked out.

“How did you get here?!” The other man asked perplexed, his long brown hair hanging over his face as the man stood up. Brushing it away, Harry was struck by the awed look the man pierced him with.

“Through the gate,” Harry replied, turning to point to the direction he came but finding he was completely unable to, as if the static charge was forcing him to do anything but move forward.

Harry managed a shrug in the direction, turned back towards the man and knew his war with his stomach had been lost. He lurched to a hedge in front of him and threw his breakfast up all over it.

“Oh Merlin, I’m sorry,” Harry croaked as he stood up, refusing to make eye contact until he had vanished away his mess and charmed his mouth and face clean.

“That’s quite alright,” the man said. “But I am dumbfounded as to how you managed to get that close to the Manor. Harry Potter, right?”

Harry nodded.

“I’m Charles,” the man introduced. “Come on, let’s get away from here...”

He led Harry down the slope and towards the stables across a gravelly path. About forty steps away from the Manor, Harry felt himself able to turn and he did so, taking stock of the looming, brooding, cursed residence.

In every shadow of the building, he sensed dark energy manifesting as sinister iridescent wisps and coiling air in tones of black, blue and purple. With a taunt straight from his troubled past, he felt two phantom twinges in his scar, and he worried himself with wondering whether there was part of Voldemort left over in the building.

He was relieved from his terrified pondering as Charles led him into the stables and offered Harry a seat to take, briefly disappearing to fetch him water. “Are you okay?”

Harry nodded, his sense of self settling firmly back into place. “What happened to the Manor?”

“Well... I know you know You-Know-Who occupied it,” Charles replied flatly, “and we think that he might have left some sort of curse to be activated should he die. Or if the Malfoy’s betrayed him. Or anything... it could be anything. No one has been in there since the war.”

“I thought it was raided?”

“Not to my knowledge, no,” Charles sighed, “the Aurors probably left it well alone.”

“I’m not surprised,” Harry murmured. “What about Malfoy? Has he been in?”

“No,” Charles shook his head, “he wouldn’t dare.”

“And that house elf? Does she live there?”

Charles frowned. He shook his head. “Draco freed them, but they didn’t want to leave... he made them a kitchen out the back there and that’s where they live. Quite convenient,” Charles scoffed, “seeing as Draco has me here doing all his paperwork and I don’t do magic.”

“What’s he have you doing that for?” Harry asked slightly disgustedly. He was surprised at his instinctive reaction to Draco, assuming the worst of the man.

“I work with him.” Charles indicated his desk, piled with papers and paper trays, seemingly unfazed.

“Apologies,” Harry said, swallowing, “I don’t mean to be rude, but the Malfoy I once knew didn’t have much to do with anyone who wasn’t a wizard.”

Charles made a gesture to indicate he didn’t mind the prying. “He wouldn’t have, at one point,” he confirmed openly, smiling softly, “and I _am_ a wizard, and a pureblood at that, for about six generations. I’m a squib.”

“Ah,” Harry said, looking down, “right. Sorry.”

“Anyway, Harry, are you here looking for Draco? Or were you trying to take a tour of the grounds?” Charles asked with a snicker that had his eyes sparkling.

Harry smiled, humoured. “Yeah, I was hoping to see him.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but Draco’s away working.”

“When is he back?”

“Merlin if I know,” Charles smiled, “it’s always hard to tell with his projects. He’s been working on this particular one for two months now. Last time he wrote, he told me he kept unpicking threads of magic every time he managed to stitch another together.”

“Oh.” Harry sighed. “Still in New Orleans?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s where I last saw him,” Harry explained. “I’ll be back in America by the end of the week... I will jump down and see him there.” Harry stood to leave.

“If I could give you some advice,” Charles began cautiously, “I would suggest that you _don’t_ pop down and see him without giving him some warning.”

Harry gave a curt nod.

Charles stood stock still and confident, which spoke to Harry as a very Malfoy-esque characteristic. “Apologies if I am overstepping the mark, Harry, but even _I_ know you two didn’t get on at school, so I think I’m being fair in warning you that he may not be happy to see you again. Maybe you should give him the choice. He’s a lot more fragile since Azkaban.”

“Fragile?”

“Don’t let him know I told you that,” Charles said wryly.

“I won’t. He’d kill the messenger, not you!”

“That’s Draco all right. Here,” Charles scrambled to the desk and retrieved a quill and black ink. “Give him the choice to contact you. I’ll pass on the note.”

Harry felt as if he himself had no choice, but he respected Charles’ authority on the topic of Malfoy and so he did what he was told. He scribbled a short letter, rolled it up and handed it over before shaking Charles’ hand.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Harry said.

“Look, the next time you come back here, apparate just over there,” Charles gestured to a large imposing oak a few feet from the stables. “Avoid that fucker altogether!” He pointed to the Manor.

“Yeah, I’ll do that...” Harry walked to the door of the stables. Surprising himself, he turned back quickly. “Can I ask why he keeps it?”

“The Manor?”

“Yeah...”

“Every time I have asked him, he gives me a different, vague answer. I suggested to him many times to relocate us to Bora Bora or Bali but he refuses.”

“If he could be based anywhere in the world, why stay here... why keep his office here?” Harry looked about the open room. “This is an office, right?”

Charles nodded. “His workshop. I guess it's really _my_ office, as he is never here. Draco doesn’t like wizarding society,” he explained. “He wouldn’t openly admit it to me, but over the years I have come to assume that he keeps his life rooted here because anywhere else he would have to interact with more wizards than he wants too. You know... permits to work near muggles, or having his office and workshop directly in a wizarding area.”

“I think I would take my chances rather than be anywhere near that terrible thing,” Harry said in a tone that suggested he was still flattened by the proximity to the Manor.

“The terror of it goes after a while,” Charles explained.

“But if he’s out of the country all the time, why do you stay here?”

“I don’t live here. I just work here for a couple of days a week. Plus... it’s nice to be spoiled by the house elves. Little perks, you know?”

Harry eyed Charles suspiciously.

“And,” Charles added, resigned, “loyalty.”

“You’re loyal to Malfoy, even though he leaves you here?”

“I’m loyal to Draco because he helped pull me out of the limbo between forced muggle living and a wizarding life that is heavily scorned,” Charles confided, his eyes intense.

“Okay,” Harry said to acknowledge Charles’ words.

“And I’m a childhood friend,” Charles pressed on, despite the eyebrows Harry had raised at that revelation, “and I do believe I am now his only long-term friend. He needs someone to be here when he returns from a job.”

“That’s...” Harry felt a rush of pity for Malfoy, which only fuelled his burning need to understand him fully. “That’s very kind of you.”

They smiled at each other and Harry said goodbye and went to the large oak. He took stock of the Manor with its insidious, undulating black aura spreading out from the bruised, cursed building, before he apparated away, happy to be leaving.

.

.

.

**Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire  
August 3, 2006  
4 PM**

Draco looked down at the letter in his hands.

He was stunned and angry.

He was stunned that Potter would take it as his personal duty to apologise to Draco and angry that he had missed the apology in person.

The letter left by Harry read:

_Draco_

_Stopped by to see you at the Manor, heard you’re still in the States._

_Just wanted to say sorry for being a prick back at The Highmore._

_I was severely shitted after the wedding. If it’s any consolation, the hangover lasted two days._

_Let me know if you’re ever in the States again... whiskey’s on me._

_Potter_

...and below that, Potter’s address in Maine.

He had looked at Charles, exasperated. “He wants _me_ to go see _him_ so he can apologise?”

Charles shrugged, not bothered. “He seemed nice enough.”

Draco glowered at Charles. “Are you fucking serious?”

“He didn’t seem that awful,” Charles argued, looking up from his desk at Draco. “He seemed genuinely concerned about you and the Manor.”

Draco’s stomach constricted in a way that suggested he was thrilled at the notion that Harry Potter in some way cared about him. He berated himself mentally at the reaction, detesting the way he was reacting positively to the interruption of his life by Harry. He angled the conversation towards Potter’s impossible nature to keep his thoughts towards Harry sufficiently negative. “The twat got _how_ close to the Manor?”

“Came up the driveway,” Charles told him flatly, his eyes boring into Draco in a way that made Draco feel exposed; he knew Charles was waiting to see him react and why wouldn’t he? Being anywhere near the Manor was difficult and dangerous but there had been Harry, easing his way through it.

“That bastard never does anything by halves, let me tell you,” Draco laughed bitterly. “How the hell did he even manage to get halfway up the driveway?”

“I don’t know, but he was pretty sick when we got him away,” Charles chuckled, “and he threw up in a bush!”

Draco brightened at that, his shoulders squaring. “Good,” he said with a smile. “He’s always managed to do seemingly impossible things with ease.”

“Jealous?”

Draco scowled. “Once upon a time I suppose I was.”

“Do you really know anything about him apart from what you _used_ to know about him?” Charles asked pointedly. Draco hated his insightful character at times, even if he was used to it and somewhat enjoyed it.

“I know he’s a big Quidditch star,” he confirmed, shrugging. “Famous, adored... that kind of thing. He’s always been famous and adored-“

“That’s not true,” Charles argued, “he has had his fair share of hateful press... a lot of it when you used to know him, I believe.”

“Biggest fan in the fucking Harry Potter Fan Club?” Draco jibed stonily.

“Maybe he’s different now,” Charles suggested, his palms spread open to keep Draco’s temper at bay. “You’re different from when you were at school... not such a pretentious prick.”

“I’m plenty pretentious, thank you very fucking much,” Draco snapped before changing the subject. “Any other pleasant news?”

“Hogwarts again,” Charles replied.

“No. Next.”

“Come on Draco... they just want a table in the kitchen fixed,” Charles reasoned hopefully.

“I told you from the day we started working together that I would _never_ accept any contracts from Hogwarts. Don’t even bother trying to get me to do it.” Draco put on his best glare, but his heart was hammering the same way it always did when he thought about Hogwarts.

“Fine.” Charles threw the letter to the other side of his desk. “And the Creature Cabinet, again.”

“For fucks sake,” Draco growled. “Is there no end to this? How much are they offering this time?”

“Still five million.”

“If they get to ten, I might consider it,” Draco joked darkly. He let the conversation fall away, and spent the next three minutes staring off into space as he ruminated on the danger of being anywhere near such an item.


End file.
